


Underhand

by westandvigilant



Series: Devil Town [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Friday Night Lights, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6650791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westandvigilant/pseuds/westandvigilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is all because katy vanessasstyles made a post about Enjolras getting caught jerkin’ it and then this happened and i’m so sorry mom, i meant to be better than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underhand

i.  _her mistake_

Enjolras’ house. Exterior. Dusk. Éponine is late — she thinks — and the sun, however much it has deemed to wane in the twilight hour, looks foreign on her nocturnal skin. Lays the uniform she didn’t have time to change from a little too bare. She jitters quickly, a shadow stretching for the shelter of dark, to the stoop and puzzles for a moment at the completely unlocked, partially open door. An eye roll, a head shake, then she pushes inside.

The overwhelming quiet of the house cloaks her, muffles her. Begs her to do the same. And so she does, moving with hushed sneakers down hallways she is beginning to know. That are starting to feel familiar.

She takes a guess that he’ll be in his office and takes a guess that the door she is standing in front of is said office. As soon as she opens the door, it becomes quite apparent that she is wrong on both accounts.

Instead, she finds herself in his bedroom where he sits, naked, at the side of his bed, head leaned back and pretty obviously enjoying what was supposed to be alone time.

She backpedals into the door frame. He falls on his face. They both wish she wouldn’t have laughed so hard.

“I’m late,” she giggles.

“You’re early,” he corrects.

He refuses eye contact and she refuses to leave while he puts on his clothes. It’s an awkward night for everyone involved.

 

ii.  _his mistake_

Enjolras’ house. Interior. Somewhere between late and far too late. Another conspiratorial silence greets her when she wakes, reaching a tentative hand over the cold spot where Enjolras is not. She looks around the room, bleary and out of focus. Only unpacked boxes and void colored corners come into view.

Éponine runs a hand over her face and wipes away a lock of hair stuck to her lip before throwing her legs out of the bed and shuffling into the hallway. He’s up late working, she just knows it. He works too hard, spreads himself to thin.

Practiced steps take her to his office, where a blue light seeps through the cracks in the door and over her toes. With dream crusted eyes and a sleep rusted throat, she palms open the door, quieter than if she had tried.

Cut to: Enjolras seated at his desk. Sweat shimmers his cheeks. He leans over, forehead against the mahogany for support. Shirtless. Trousers in a heap at his feet. One hand digs into his thigh as the other strokes his cock with a merciless rhythm. A groan turns into a gasp.

Cut to: Éponine rubbing her eyes and asking if he plans on finishing up anytime soon.

“Learn to lock the fucking door,” she yawns.

“I thought you were asleep,” he says.

She doesn’t wait for him to return to bed and he stays in the office until his cheeks have stopped burning. They don’t talk about it.

 

iii.  _her mistake, cont._

Their house. Interior. Still too late. She wakes, again. He’s gone, again. And it’s soundless, again. Same shots, different takes. A new night that feels pretty much the same. It doesn’t happen all the time, but it feels the same anyhow.

She walks the same track through the same hallway to the same door with the same surreal light. She’s about to palm open the door when it dawns on her.

The only mistake here was her thinking this was an accident.

A slow smile glides across her lips when she pushes open the door, just a crack, to watch. The roll of his neck as his head tips back. The mat of blue washed blonde curls against his jawline. The cord of his bicep as he rubs up and down and up and down. 

Éponine takes one last look down the hallway to ensure that they are alone, then slides off her shirt and pads into the room behind him. 

Slowly, slowly she crosses the space between them and slowly, slowly she draws a finger across his jaw, her breast brushing against his back. He jumps, begins to turn around until she fixes her hand around his throat.

She dips her mouth to his ear and whispers, “Stop. Hands off.” 

Chest stilled with bated breath he complies, cautiously bringing his hands out to the side. Awaiting orders, like a good boy.

“Now,” Éponine continues, “you don’t get off until I do. Get to work.”

He’s on her like lightening. The chair shoots out from underneath him as he whirls, crushing her cool body to his flushed skin. Sloppy kisses. Hurried. Frantic. Enjolras steers her into the desk, stacks of papers crashing to the floor with the sweep of an arm.

Back flat on top of the desk, propping herself up on her elbows. A delicious shudder flows through her when she sees him kneeling between her legs. He licks and sucks and hums with such precision she could swear that silver tongue was made for this alone. His fingernails dig into her ass and she whimpers his name until the letters disintegrate in her mouth and lose all meaning.

He grips her hips tight as she comes, letting her grind against his tongue while she unwinds. She runs her hand through his hair and gives him permission to finish what he started. It takes mere seconds, a few pumps, his teeth sunk deep into that bottom lip, that aquiline profile strained in beautiful abandon. Peak, at last.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs.

“My mistake,” she agrees.

He lays down on the floor and she joins him. They silently decide on their first tradition.


End file.
